


Saludo Revolucionario

by enjolrage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Enjolras is trans, M/M, One Shot, Paris (City), Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Politics, The author really likes the métro, Twenty Years Later, failed revolution, public bathroom sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 10:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrage/pseuds/enjolrage
Summary: Twenty years after a failed revolution, Grantaire comes back to Paris, alone. The remaining members of Les Amis de l’ABC, those who haven’t died or disappeared, have fled the country. Except for one, who gets out of prison today.





	Saludo Revolucionario

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Saludo revolucionario](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15902922) by [OrpheusCrowned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrpheusCrowned/pseuds/OrpheusCrowned). 



Paris hasn’t changed. Maybe that’s the worst thing: Paris hasn’t changed. What was destroyed was now rebuilt, the cobblestones that were unsealed were back in the ground, and there is nothing left of their revolution.

The chestnut trees still draw lace on the white walls of the boulevards, the bourgeois still scurry into the taxis, looking straight ahead and ignoring the grime of the streets, while the good people still hoard into the métro’s corridors. They avoid looking at each other, perhaps as to not have to remember that not so long ago, they found themselves on either side of a barricade.

Grantaire arrived Gare d’Austerlitz this morning, travelling by night. He’s been back several times already, in passing only, and every time he had to drag his feet through this place - this place that he had seen in such a different light - has left him with the same unease. Today - today is worse. The passengers brush against each other, many lost, and Grantaire doesn’t know if he wants to stay.

The last time he came back, the last of the métro stations that had been destroyed during _these days_ were still being rebuilt. Now, they’re all open again. Since when? _I hope it lasted a long time._ That the barred corridors, that the interrupted lines reminded whoever wanted to step outside that Paris had been rage and ruin and that it would take naught, a new insurrection, for her to be rage and ruin again. But in this reconstructed city, he is surrounded by blind windows on he walls, and he feels desperately alone.

A few days ago, when Grantaire contacted him, Feuilly directed him to a squat where he would be able to sleep, warning him that the information was a few months old and that he wasn’t sure whether it was still valid. He tried calling him back several times, but his calls never made it through. He doesn’t worry too much - when Feuilly will need to get back to him, he will. Grantaire trusts him, for this and for everything else. His contacts with south-american groups have been particularly useful, and he is relatively sure that Feuilly saved his life when he found him in Havana. Tonight, he will try the address.

Parisians hate the RER; Grantaire, well, he’s always liked it. A sort of haven, of incompressible moments of peace between the chaos of point A and the horror of point B. No matter how bad the haven stinks. He gets in at Austerlitz, line C, and miraculously findsa seat. His head pressing against the dirty window, he watches the tunnels as they flit past. Fugitive, warm lights probe holes into the darkness. They only ever guide the rats anymore. He remembers the foggy journeys back from his evenings with les Amis de l’ABC, the race for the last métro, and then, later on, the long walks in the darkness with a stolen map of the métro’s network in hand. It was their playground. He remembers the kisses shared in the dark.

The stations are flying by and it’s all going too fast. The impression of being twenty-three again. Minus the alcohol. The want comes back, suddenly, strangely, the reeking of the RER like Proust’s madeleine. It’s the first time he feels such a want in six years. Coming back wasted, would it have made it easier? It was a lot simpler at the time, the words would leave his mouth before he even had to think of them, he would laugh and make laugh, he would be offered drinks as a means to keep him talking and he would rush into obedience. The black thing that would spread in him and paralyze him sometimes grew weaker as he drank. It warmed his throat and it was good.

Since then, he has learnt to function with the black thing inside him. To recognize it, to sense its movements, to detect it as it builds up its strength. To live with it. It has adapted as well. The black thing that only wore his face now adorns the ghosts of his friends.

And Paris is full of ghosts.

They’ve fled, all of them. Joly left the country the moment he stepped out of prison, and Grantaire hasn’t heard from him since. Feuilly says he’s well, as well as he can be. Feuilly served ten years before being released for good behavior, and he went back to South America to build up a network. Well, « all of them » is not that many anymore. They’ve fled, and Grantaire wonders if they, too, have the black thing inside that sometimes makes him see the faces of Jehan, Courfeyrac and Bahorel around a street corner.

Beyond the artificial light of the métro, it’s a beautiful day. The sun is high and it’s nice out, a clear and bright morning of autumn. It’s a good day to be released from prison. The day of his own release, it was raining. To busy himself, he sends a text to the number given to him by Feuilly, and he is surprised to get an instant reply. A so-called Lola tells him he can come by tonight, that they have two spare beds. Two beds - Feuilly must have told her. It’s probably a good thing, but the thought makes his stomach ache, a familiar sensation. It’s an attempt, a stab in the dark, something he wouldn’t have dared bet on when he still used to bet. _Maybe he won’t come_.

Now that he is here, the knot in his belly won’t go away. It’s a torture, and it isn’t far from being the most euphoric feeling he’s experienced in a long time. In twenty years, maybe. It’s something that resembles hope.

He’s been assured that he'd get out today, that nothing could keep him in jail now. Except if he assaults a guard on his way out. Grantaire suppresses a smile - that would be like him. No. Twenty years, it’s been twenty years. He probably has no idea what he’s like anymore. All he has is the memory of what they used to be. But Feuilly has told him that nobody would come to wait for him; so he comes to wait for him.

There should be something in the air. A chill, a clamor. A momentum in memory. Can you forget a revolution so easily ? Grantaire has read through the newspapers, and has only found one particularly minor far-left journal that even mentions it. They should all know that it’s today.

He’s waited for this. Feuilly is the one who told him, two years ago, told him that the day was getting closer. For a few weeks, Grantaire avoided the topic, did everything in his power not to think about it - obviously, it was a lost cause. He ended up asking him: when?

And, finally, today is the day.

The RER slows to a halt and it feels like a punch in Grantaire’s stomach, it takes him, it squeezes him, it twists him, he’s going to see him again. Not just now, still, not yet. It’s not the time, and Fleury-Mérogis isn’t accessible directly by RER, you then have to take a bus. He still has time. Strangely, as he gets closer, when in twenty or thirty minutes he might face him, the idea of seeing him again seems as crazy as it felt two or fifteen years ago.

He sees his hands shake as he steps on the platform. Are they going to immediately find each other? Are they going to smile? Is he going to be happy to see him? Is he going to once again see this disappointed look, vaguely hurt, the one that told him he had made another bad decision? How will his hair be, and the curve of his neck? What if he’s changed, really changed? It’s been twenty years, of course he’ll have changed. And himself? Grantaire too has changed. When he looks in the mirror, he’s forty.  

The bus stop should be right outside the station, he only needs to walk straight to the exit and- 

He feels like his heart stop. His heart, time, the world around him - there’s something that stops. Enjolras is facing him, just a few feet away. It’s him.

It’s him.

How can he not have changed? - But yes, of course he has, his, his, the inventory doesn’t come to Grantaire, his jaw is squarer, his shoulders are larger, his face more marked. He’s twenty years older of course, but weirdly, at first he didn’t notice all of this. Now, it’s obvious. Twenty years.

Enjolras facing him has the same expression that he feels himself wearing, as if he was drinking him with his eyes, as if he was urgently, desperately looking for signs of the time that has passed. 

It submerges him like a wave that you see soaring in front of you and against which you cannot fight.

An announcement suddenly fills the space, some train for god-knows-where is going to enter the station, he can’t look away from him.

For a moment, he wonders if Enjolras is going to turn around, walk away, leave like that time at the parlor. He still remembers the look in his eyes as he said « Grantaire, I don’t want you to come back. »

The sentence still resonates between them. Grantaire has come.

A flow of people advancing towards the platform surges from behind Enjolras and surrounds him, and he seems to remember the world around them. Finally, he lets himself be carried off by the flow. It’s only a matter of a few steps, a few seconds, until neither step nor second part them anymore.

Enjolras’ eyes - he thought he would never be able to think of Enjolras’ eyes while looking into them again, to think of Enjolras’ mouth with his lips so close, just a kiss away.

They haven’t said a word, and Enjolras closes the door of the station’s public toilets after them. Immediately, their bodies collide. It’s reeking, but Enjolras’ smell hasn’t changed, the taste of his saliva, the perfume of his body, the shivers that emerge when he touches the hollow of his waist, the avidity with which his fingers catch on his clothes. His body is more angular, but he finds the blond fuzz on the back of his neck, still. He grips it. The sharp edge of his jaw, and his breath, the miracle of his breath, broken against his own. Kneeling on the disgusting floor, Grantaire prays to him, and his fingers dig into his hair - the same force, the same demand. It’s a supplication. He drowns in the salty taste of his thighs.

When Enjolras’ legs finally buckle, they stay there for a long moment, collapsed on the floor, their bodies intertwined. He hears his breathing settling against his shoulder, slowly, and lets their bodies weigh down on the other. Their hands seek and brush.

« Thank you for coming back. »

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no post ! Sorry for the long wait - we haven't given up on 'Red Smoke and Tear Gas', but until we upload the next chapter, which I hope to be soon, we hope you enjoy this one-shot !


End file.
